"Amazing Debut Novel Features Dynamic Detective in Search of a Serial Killer"
Reviewed by Min Jung
Posted September 19, 2012
Romance Suspense
Kristen Conner is a detective in the Chicago Police
Department, and she's followed in her father's footsteps.
Unfortunately, he died in the line of duty, leaving behind a
legacy that she's constantly trying to live up to. Kristen
tries to do everything right, but she's always being
pulled in multiple directions. Her mom wants her to date
the perfect guy, her sister (whose husband is a minister)
wants her to attend church regularly, her department wants
her to be more like her father, and everyone wants her to
attend anger management training. The FBI comes to Chicago because a serial killer has
struck. But this is no ordinary killer - this killer has
struck a series of cities, and Chicago is just the latest on
the list. Kirsten becomes part of the task force, as she
is one of the detectives who reported to the first murder
the killer commits in Chicago. Her involvement in the
case dismays the people in her life, as they're convinced
she's using it as an excuse to push them further out of her
life. The task force finally receives a break on the case, and it
looks like the guy Kristen has been dating could be involved
in the murders. Could she have been dating a serial killer
for all these months? Will she be the laughing stock of the
police department? Or is the task force headed in the wrong
direction? When Kristen realizes who the killer actually is
and who his next target is, she decides to take things into
her own hands. Can she handle everything on her own without
sacrificing her own life?
CUTS LIKE A KNIFE was gripping from the very beginning when
Kristen
and her partner capture a perp for committing a robbery and
Kristen shows her tenacity and courage when she chases the
perp despite her knee injury and losing her partner, and
then faces off with him even after he draws a knife on her.
Kristen is such a wonderfully multi-dimensional character -
she has her religious beliefs but also has questions about
God, she enjoys playing with her young niece and nephew, she
doesn't hesitate to go toe-to-toe with some of Chicago's
most dangerous criminals, and she isn't intimidated by the
police brass or the FBI agents. I was also delighted by the other characters in the book -
Kristen has a great family, a fun partner, and members of
the task force. Her family alternately worries about her,
tries to commandeer her life, and scolds her for not being
involved enough in their lives. Her partner worries that
she takes too many risks, and the task force members all
have varying takes on her ranging from one with a romantic
interest to one who would rather not interact with her at
all. Overall, CUTS LIKE A KNIFE was an amazing read by a debut
novelist. I hope there will be a follow-up.
SUMMARY
Chicago has a new resident—a heartless killer on a long
crime spree. Kristen Conner (think Sandra Bullock in Miss
Congeniality) is a good cop and a good girl: she loves her
mom, goes to church and coaches her niece’s soccer team. And
her track record and instincts as a detective are impeccable
. . . but this case and this killer expose a blind spot that
ultimately endangers those closest to her. Can she catch
this hauntingly familiar culprit before he strikes again?
CUTS LIKE A KNIFE is loaded with action, humor and wry
introspection.
ExcerptThe End of MarchIt was one of those March days when the sun shines hot
and
the wind blows cold:
when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.
Charles Dickens
Chapter 1
March 31, 9:59pm
I should have stayed in California. It was like
seventy
degrees in San Diego yesterday. Almost orange on the
weather map. It freaking snowed here last week. And then
the DePaul kids showed up at Wrigley in swimsuits today.
Oh
how I love children. NOT. The screaming brats distracted
me
from a pretty decent game. One idiot spilled beer on my
scorecard. I could have killed him. If I see him again
and
he's still yelling at piss drunk girls in bikinis the
whole
game, I will. That's a promise, kids.
I just can't figure out what to wear in this
godforsaken
wasteland of broken asphalt. I left my jacket home this
morning and froze. I put it on this afternoon and was
sweating like a dog. Edit that thought. Dogs don't sweat.
Wonder what genius came up with that brilliant word
picture. Chicago weather is definitely a mystery but it
does set the mood of the story. My story. I bought a book
on writing. Waste of time. If you're a writer you just
write.
A new chapter opened. His quest for immortality
continued.
Quest for immortality. Nice. I like that. Writing
is a lost art, which is why I got to do this myself. Yep,
it's a new day. Time to turn the page and start a new
chapter. The weather is now officially irrelevant. Relief
is so close at hand.
His days of living in a self–imposed limbo
were coming to an end. Six months of restraint and
anticipation were painful. Excruciatingly so. Denial of
what was rightfully his felt like torture but such was
his
power of discipline that he would not jeopardize all he
had
established for an easy reprieve. But that's what made
him
different. Unique. Special. A name beyond all others.
They don't have a clue as to all I've
accomplished
yet. Losers. With a capital L. I know they know I'm out
here but they're too stupid to do anything about it.
Someone is sitting behind a computer right now looking
for
me and wondering where the hell I've gone. I bet I'm
driving him out of his freaking mind. Or hers. Serves him
or her right. I have more taste for a her. Hers are so
much
better out of their minds. Sooooo dumb. I love it.
Tomorrow is April Fools Day. Fools indeed. Especially
cops. If I'm ever going to get the press I deserve I'm
going to have to send the fools some clues. They make me
do
everything.
He sat at the precipice of his next great work. Ready.
He was back.
The Month of April
April is the cruelest month.
T.S. Eliot
Chapter 2
Mom, I told you this isn't a good time. I've got to
go."
"Honey, it's never a good time."
"I know, Mom, but it really isn't a good time
this
time. I have to go. Now."
My partner is looking at me with utter
incredulity.
He's just slammed the gear shift into park and unbuttoned
his sports jacket. He flips the snap on his holster for
easy access to his Glock. I shouldn't have picked up
Mom's
call but I thought I could get off the phone fast. She
keeps carping that I never pick up. Now I'm going to hear
about how I'm always the first to hang up. I can't win.
"Mom, I'll call you back. I'm getting off right
now. I have—"
"You'll be at Danny and Kaylen's Sunday?"
"Yes, Mom. I have—"
"And church?"
I don't get to answer because Don reaches over,
snatches my cell phone from my hand, and hits the red end
call button. I wonder if it's possible to make the sound
of
slamming the phone down by hitting the "off" button with
force. If so, Don just did it.
"Momma's going to have to wait, Kristen. He isn't
going to hang around all day waiting for us to say hi.
Let's get in there now."
A surge of adrenaline courses through my body as
I
step out of the car, touch the gun that's holstered on my
side one more time just to make sure it hasn't
mysteriously
disappeared, snap and unsnap the top strap, and head into
the Gas & Grub, game face on.
As we walk through the door the two guys working
the cash register look up at us nervously, probably
wondering if they're about to get busted for selling
cigarettes to minors again. We pulled into the parking
lot
in our unmarked mud brown Mercury Crown Victoria, which
is
not the world's greatest disguise for detectives who want
to make a collar by entering a public establishment under
the radar. Maybe it's the extra antennas on the trunk
lid.
Might as well put a billboard on the roof that broadcasts
Chicago Police Department in neon letters. We're here to
serve but we do have a way of making people
nervous—and disappear.
My partner, Don Squires, gives a nod as he heads
down one aisle and I take the one next to it. I quickly
round two corners to cut off our suspect's line of
escape.
Don is three feet away from him on one side and I
position
myself an equal distance away.
"Don't move. Leave your hands where we can see them."
Don uses his menacing voice, the snarl he puts on for
moments like this, which I might add is very menacing.
An EMT from one of the ambulance services
recognized the punk's description from an APA bulletin
while pumping fake nacho cheese sauce on a
half–pound, buck–fifty Polish dog they sell
at
Gas & Grub. He goes to the same church as me and fancies
himself a junior crime fighter, so he put the call
straight
to my cell phone. It's not the right time to lose focus,
but I wonder to myself how Lloyd got my number. He's got
to
be pushing over three hundred pounds and, as I've already
promised him numerous times, I am going to kick his butt
for eating all those congealed fats and animal parts on a
bun. He just says mustard is lo–cal. The butt
kicking
will have to wait for later.
The punk, late teens or early twenties, is a
retro
eighties piece of work. He's wearing a black
t–shirt
with a skull and the name of a group that I don't
recognize
in jagged, blood–red letters. Twisted Tweeters.
Clever. He's got the chain hanging out of the front
pocket
of his black jeans, connected to a what I assume is a
wallet that he doesn't like to use, based on his current
little crime spree. All he needs is those black boots
with
the metal and leather straps, but unfortunately for me
and
my partner he has on a pair of comfort shoes that look
like
what we used to rent at the bowling alley; all black, of
course, but you can see the stitching. Footwear isn't
going
to slow him down if he bolts, I think to myself. I
quickly
take a glance up and down the aisle. Not going to be an
issue; he has nowhere to go.
Neither Don nor I have pulled guns because the
convenience store is packed. Doesn't mean our hands
aren't
touching the brushed metal grips, however. There must be
twenty gas pumps out front on a busy street. The back
door
services walk–ins from a blue collar, working
class,
urban neighborhood. So we've got people coming and going
from every direction. No sense starting a panic. We have
a
CPD mandate that prohibits us from taking risks that are
likely to result in collateral damage.
I'm not letting my eyes leave the punk's hands.
If
he even twitches anywhere near a pocket, mandate or not,
my
Beretta 96 is coming out in a hurry, whether it starts a
stampede for the door or not.
The kid looks up and locks eyes with Don with a
glare of anger and hatred. He soundlessly mouths
something
to Don that I can't make out, but I'm guessing he's not
complimenting him on his choice of ties this morning. Don
bristles and they face off. Don was a running back in
college and still hits the weights a couple mornings a
week. He's got the start of a paunch around the middle,
but
he has a lot of arm and chest muscle to keep his
proportions right and project a serious formidability.
The punk is probably six foot one in height and less
than 170 pounds soaking wet. Did I mention the tattoos
and
slouch? Even if he wasn't into armed robbery, which
turned
lethal for the seventy–seven–year–old
victim who fought back and just passed away after a
couple
days in ICU at Rush Presbyterian Hospital for his
efforts,
I still wouldn't like this kid just on sight. We're
obviously not supposed to profile, but my daddy didn't
raise a fool. This is a kid who is screaming anger and
rebellion at the world without having to move his lips.
My money is on Don if this takedown gets
physical.
Heck, my money is on me if Don decides to turn around,
pour
himself a cup of coffee, and leave the heavy lifting to
me.
I can take this punk. I've taken every hand to hand
combat
course the Chicago Police Department offers. I don't
score
well on the pistol range—which is why I traded the
standard issue Glock 22 for a Beretta last week—but
I
do get superior marks on hand to hand.
The punk breaks eye contact with Don and then
turns
toward where I block the other end of the aisle. He looks
me up and down slowly and smiles. He puckers up and blows
me a kiss, and then he flips me off as he pushes a
spinner
rack filled with chips and other snacks in Don's
direction,
and vaults over the condiment counter between us. Nacho
cheese sauce and pickle relish fly everywhere. He knocks
two people down by the dairy cooler and crashes through
the
back door in a frantic sprint out the back door. I'm
wishing like crazy he wore his boots with the silver
rings
today because we're going to be running. I'm not supposed
to even think the thought but I do wonder if I can hit a
moving target with the Beretta while running hard myself.
Inflicting a flesh wound is all I'm thinking, of course.
I am furious and want to do him bodily harm,
which
as an officer of the peace I am prohibited from doing on
the basis of me not liking him and him making me mad. But
I'm half hoping he wants to play rough, because I'm
ready.
This won't be the first time I ask God to forgive me for
a
bad attitude today—or tomorrow—but I swear I
want to be the one who cuffs him. Tightly.
Don and I are outside in a flash, bumping
shoulders
in the doorway but not losing a step. Don's wearing a
black
summer weight wool suit, Italian cut—that often
means
no vent in the back he has told me at least fifty
times—with shiny black leather wingtip shoes, which
are not good for speed. I think they're his Allen
Edmonds,
which cost over three hundred bucks, he reminds us in the
detective's bullpen regularly. I'm sure Allen makes a
great
shoe, but that still doesn't make them good for a track
meet. Don will be crying for a week about what the job
does
to his clothes and how we need a real expense allowance
for
clothing, just like the guys in uniform.
I have no sympathy. I've told him forty times to get
some Rockports or Eccos with a soft, flexible,
comfortable
sole. He just looks at me in abject horror. I've got on
my
Eccos, the very best comfort shoe in the world the clerk
at
Timberline in the mall said. Dad always told me to buy
American, but I'm not sure that's possible anymore, and
I've got to say, those Danes or Scandinavians or whoever
it
is that does Eccos, make a great shoe you can actually
work
in. My sister Klarissa agrees with Don on matters of
fashion and looks at my shoes with undisguised disdain. I
think Nike makes a custom cross training
high–heeled
model for her to wear to the health club. That's why
she's
the weathergirl on WCI–TV and I'm a newbie
detective
who's about to rock some punk's world.
The kid is surprisingly fast. Real fast. I wish
some nice high school track coach could have got hold of
him before he got into all this trouble. He's clearing
the
alley behind the Gas & Grub and turning right on a
residential street of classic Chicago row houses, and Don
and I are still fifty yards behind. Don's a sprinter so
if
the kid makes us run more than half a mile he'll be out
of
the race. I, on the other hand, was a soccer player and
middle distance runner in college. I may still complete a
marathon some day. Depends on getting my surgically
repaired right knee stronger.
I was my dad's third daughter, bless his heart. Mom
couldn't have any more kids so he was never going to
coach
a son in football, basketball or baseball, the
red–blooded, testosterone filled,
All–American
sports. I give him credit for making the best of a tough
situation. No tea parties or Barbies. It was basketball,
volleyball, year–round soccer, and track for me.
For
us.
For a while we thought I might be the next Mia
Hamm. After a couple of torn ACLs and the
slow–dawning acceptance that I never could hit a
good
left footer anyway, I started thinking about a day job.
My
dad was a cop. Why not me?
When Klarrisa the weathergirl begins a
sentence, "Just because Dad was a cop," I know what is
about to follow. Something to the effect of "It doesn't
mean you have to rub shoulders with the city's lowlife."
I
never let her finish anymore. "Don't go there,
weathergirl," usually stops her in her tracks.
I hear Don's labored breathing as we turn the
corner. I've broken a sweat but I'm still breathing easy
and can go like this all day if necessary. I've got to
get
serious about running the Chicago Marathon in October, I
think to myself. I've done the half–marathon a
couple
times. The punk's still forty yards ahead, not a good
thing, so its time to turn it up a notch. My partner
won't
like it, but this is no time to make sure his male ego
gets
proper care and attention. I'm breathing easy—this
is
just a warm–up on the elliptical machine—so I
start to leave Don behind. Then he says it; gasps it is
more accurate. I was hoping against hope he wouldn't, but
the words rasp out: "Let's fall back and regroup. Too
dangerous."
I nearly stop just so I can argue with him. He's
barely wheezing the words out but I understand loud and
clear what he's saying: girls aren't tough enough to be
cops. No way would he have said that if his partner was
male. At least I assume he wouldn't.
I don't know what gets into me, but as I ignore
him
and pick up the pace I suddenly want to flip him the
bird.
Honestly, I'm not a big time feminist. The right guy asks
me out, he can open every door in the world for me if he
so
desires. More to the point, I'm not crude or profane. I'm
not a bird flipper; it was definitely not allowed in my
house growing up. Dad may have had a nitty gritty job,
but
we did the Ozzie and Harriet thing as a family. No R
movies
and not many PG or PG–13 either. Sunday school and
church every week. Mom took us to Wednesday night Bible
Study, though Dad let me miss if I had an athletic event.
Mom didn't like that and I think Klarrisa and Kaylen, my
older sister, resented that a little bit. Okay, a lot.
However, it didn't mean they were going to go out for the
softball team, especially Klarrisa, so they were in youth
group every Wednesday night. Bottom line, no cussing and
no
bird flipping in the Conner home.
Like I said, I don't know what gets into me. I
don't think I have an anger issue. I do have a temper,
but
it's never crossed the line professionally or personally.
But I've been getting mad at people pretty easily lately.
I
wonder if it's an occupational hazard.
Don's a great partner and I won't stay mad. It
helps that he is a big time family guy. He's got an
almost
stay–at–home wife and a girl and a
boy—bless my poor dad's jealous heart. Talk about a
committed guy, Don doesn't smoke, drink, cuss—at
least not much—and great for me as a partner, he
doesn't flirt and would never think about fooling around
on
his wife. I'm not trying to be presumptuous, but let's be
honest, when you're a female in a male dominated work
environment, inappropriate things get hinted at. And
sometimes not hinted, just said outright.
Don and I are friends and we have work chemistry, but
we're all business. I think his wife gets just a twinge
of
nervousness about our relationship—I've seen her
size
me up when she doesn't think I'm looking—but Don
and
I don't have this tension hanging in the air where he's
trying to make something happen. What is it with some
guys
always testing the waters? Sometimes the married ones are
the worst.
I make no obscene gestures at Don for which I'm
grateful. I'll not have to apologize to him later, and
now
I am closing the gap on the punk. I'm not going full
speed
but I've lengthened my stride and am on pace to run a
six–minute mile I think.
The punk turns into another alley and I'm less
than
half a basketball court away—top of the circle and
taking it to the hoop, baby. I barely slow down as I
round
the corner and now he's in my sights. He's rolled two
metal
trashcans in my path. Amateur. Did I mention that I did
hurdles for my high school track team, too? The effort
has
slowed him down, but not me. Doesn't make any difference,
I
am going to be catching him soon any way you look at it.
He
senses this and makes his decision. Fight or flight?
Fight.
The punk turns to face me and he's got a knife in
his hand. He's full of surprises. Not only is he fast
enough to make any high school track team in the city but
he can just as easily get a part as a Shark or Jet in the
school's rendition of West Side Story.
I shouldn't be surprised and I am mad at myself
that I am. The knife has been his MO in all three of his
robberies. Known robberies. Being surprised at a moment
like this is not a good feeling. I put on the brakes fast
or I'm going to run myself right into his range of
attack.
I'm reaching towards the small of my back for my dainty
little Beretta, but the punk is already moving in on me.
He's red in the face and breathing loud, but he lunges
quickly to close the gap before I can de–holster my
weapon. He's made his decision to fight alright.
On cop shows and in the movies all you have to do
is employ a series of martial arts moves to deflect and
negate slashing metal. I don't care if you're Jackie
Chan's
cousin, it doesn't work that easily. When two people
fight
and one has a razor honed blade, the person without the
weapon, even if that person is a superior fighter and
ultimately prevails, is going to lose some blood.
I have on my anti–cling black slacks and
suit
top, a very comfortable lycra–type material that
fits
and wears well—and allows me to move freely. I got
both at a great sale at Marshall Fields. Half off of half
off. I'm not thinking of the suit right now, but I am
concerned about the skin underneath it. I've got
noticeable
scars around my knees from the ACL surgeries, but
otherwise, God forgive me for my vain pride, I've got
great
skin. Even Klarrisa, all five foot nine and one hundred
and
ten pounds of her, is jealous of my skin. She doesn't
have
bad skin of course. But constant dieting and TV makeup do
exact a cost.
His first slash catches the sleeve of my suit
coat
and pops the button off. No problem. I can get it sewed
back on. The good news is he got no skin.
I'm on my toes and jump back and dance to the
left.
I've had to pull my right hand from across my body where
I
was reaching for my gun, so now I have to start over
trying
to pull my weapon out and into a firing position while
keeping him at bay. He's circling and giving head fakes
in
my direction, which indicates he's played basketball,
too,
and he's trying to make me lean the wrong way on his next
charge, so he's making it next to impossible for me to
get
my firearm.
Well, if the punk can go on the offensive, so can I. I
feint to my left and he leans with it. I quickly spin to
the right and let loose a round–house kick that I'm
guessing is beautiful to behold and would film well. Not
as
good as what Jackie Chan's cousin might do, but well
executed.
The punk doesn't look like a fighter but he's
obviously been around the block. He partially ducks under
the kick intended for his head, so I catch a lot of
shoulder and hit him with a glancing blow to his jaw. It
staggers him, but just barely. He stays in ready position
and makes another lunge at me. We're still too close for
me
to reach my gun with the confidence that I'll have it in
hand and in firing position before he reaches me with the
knife, so I just forget about trying for it and keep my
hands in fighting position. I'm crouched and ready to
spin
in either direction. I'm looking for my opportunity to
attack. Our eyes meet and lock.
His eyes dilate. He drops the knife and raises
his
arms. Wow. That was easier than I thought.
Don walks past me calmly, his gun in both hands, aimed
at the center of the punk's chest.
"Keep your hands where we can see them, kick the
knife to the side and get down on your knees." There's a
nana–second of hesitation and Don shouts, "Now!"
"Make it easy for us and I'll make it easy for
you," I add as I push him flat on his face, maybe with a
little extra nudge, and cuff his hands behind him.
Don's on his cell phone calling in the uniforms.
"Good work, we got him," he says to me as he
snaps
his flip phone shut. "You okay?"
Don, you better not go there, I think, but hold
my
tongue.
"We?" I ask him, but not loud enough or with
enough
conviction to start a fight. I know it was we who got the
guy, but I wouldn't mind getting singled out for getting
the call and getting to him first. I can already hear
sirens heading our way. No time to fight with the
partner.
God, forgive me for my bad attitude ... and the
next one I am about to have.
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